


Consequences

by SoWrongButSoWrite (CinnaStarks)



Series: Inquisitor Izuna [16]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood, F/M, Poetic, italic - past, the rest is present
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 00:14:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3915931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnaStarks/pseuds/SoWrongButSoWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen does not realize how much a simple buckle can impact his life until death is creeping upon him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consequences

_Spindly fingers weave between the layers of his vest._

His body is broken, bent by the fall and then smashed by the hooves of his own horse. There is no pain, just the liquid he can barely feel oozing through his fingertips.

_“Stay.” She mumbles through even more layers of fatigue. “Please.”_

The sky is grey and fading fast. Eyelids droop but will not fall. He wishes they would.

_They find a buckle on his left side and begin to tug. It comes undone._

He wants to be angry, to blame her for this, but the emotion does not come. No use in wasting time on a world he will be leaving soon, after all.

_Cullen pulls away. As he is walking out, he can feel those grey boring into the back of his head as he walks away. He does not stop, for he knows that he will see them again before nightfall. A clan of bandits is nothing to be afraid of, after all._

His sense of touch is fading. His hands are disappearing. A name is shouted far away, one that would not have been on their lips if only he had remembered. The light is dimming. He hopes she can forgive herself.

_The blade sends fire through his body, but the flames only last so long before his severed cord can smother them._

Cold flesh is engulfed in what he can only hope are the arms of Andraste, herself, finally taking him to the Maker’s side. A lingering bit of the man he trained to be, whispers otherwise.

_His body is broken, bent by the fall and then smashed by the hooves of his own horse. There is no pain, just the liquid he can barely feel oozing through his fingertips._

Spindly fingers weave between the layers of his vest.

“Unless you want to come home to her in a coffin,-” A familiar voice clucks. “-I would pay attention to your lover’s hands, my dear.”

 

 

 


End file.
